


i will drown them in the sea

by ap_trash_compactor



Category: Star Wars: Thrawn - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 18:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15891573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ap_trash_compactor/pseuds/ap_trash_compactor
Summary: Mitth'raw'nuruodo would prefer not to be parted from his work. Arihnda Pryce would prefer to succeed at hers. Sometimes things work out to the benefit only of a few. (I just wanted A/B/O Thryce fic, so here we are.) (There's no sex on screen tho which is kinda different lol)NOTE (on the tin where you can see it): The archive warning is for implied/off-screen events that do not happen directly to any of our main characters (unless you really squint), but I still felt it was appropriate given how integral state-sponsored sexual violence is to the setting. There is also off-screen character death (of minor characters), and a canon-compliant death of a character who is major in Rebels but not in the 2017 novel, but because it's canon-compliant and off-screen I didn't use a warning. Finally, there are several mentions of very gross violence, but none of it is depicted on the page in detail. However, all those things set the vibe of this 'verse. These are very dark people, living in a very dark world, doing very dark things... and they're all (kinda uncomfortably) comfortable there.





	1. Prologue

There are rules for everything. The New Order is built on them.

In the aftermath of the Clone Wars, the Galaxy is desperate for order. And order, the Empire preaches, begins in human homes. The ideal family of Eminent and Adherent, the one guiding and the other guided, is exactly the model, COMPNOR’s Commission for Social  Stability insists, of the Empire itself. Palpatine, the first Preeminence, guides the populous with strength, while that populous yields obedience.

If the terms are new, almost unheard of on any planet besides Eriadu before the creation of the Empire, it doesn’t matter much. New language, monolithic and mass-produced, is suddenly everywhere. If the metaphor itself is bunk, that doesn’t matter either. The fiction is enshrined in law, and it bleeds into everything. 

Eminents are favored for admission to academies, promoted rapidly everywhere, recruited to government office — while Adherents, for the sake of  _ order _ , of course, are barred from all the same positions. 

And the drugs that suppress heats become heavily regulated, as well. Obviously. For the sake of order. And morality. Taking them legally means being registered centrally with the Imperial government. It also means being monitored closely by Imperial physicians, who have certain privileges in sending Imperial citizens into the net of institutional care or correction when necessary.

It’s a sensible arrangement in its way. The Commission for Social Stability doesn’t just prosthelytize about the perfect Imperial family. They help to create it, through the Imperial Futures Programme (colloquially called the matchmaking branch), which provides hefty financial incentives and enviable job placements for newly-married couples. An Adherent who looks for a marriage through the Futures Programme will never want for anything material. An Eminent who does the same is almost always guaranteed a lush placement in civilian administration. The Futures Programme, after all, is meant to cultivate an elite who embody Palpatine’s grand vision — a freshly crafted, purely human aristocracy, drawn from a tiny minority of the population, made in his image and loyal to his ideals. There are rumors that the Empire has special uses for children born to these pairs, but those are only rumors. Most Adherents, hammered relentlessly from all sides by the symbiotic forces of terror and enticement, find the Futures Programme very inviting indeed.

Arihnda Pryce finds black-market medications much more inviting.

She has no more intention of letting the Empire know her private business than she does of advertising her heats to the workers at her family’s mine. It is more than just a practical desire to manage her own body on her own terms. It is that Constants — another term that hadn't existed before the Empire — are allowed to do anything, as long as they prove themselves equal to the task. They might not be as prized as Eminents, but the Empire’s need for manpower outweighs its rhetoric. Constants can advance as far as their abilities allow, and Arihnda is certain that her abilities are equal to any task.

All she needs is a way off Lothal, and she can prove it.


	2. Act I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two people meet, and remain more or less busy with their own lives.

“Grand Tour, gentleman! It’s the Grand Tour!” Captain Virgilio’s mellow baritone has a slightly strident edge, a wild giddiness to it, as it booms down the halls of the Blood Crow’s berthing deck. “Open your doors,” he goes on, still shouting,  “open your doors, and prepare your toasts. Tonight, you’re hosts!”

There’s a low, buzzing murmur in the hall that builds as he runs through the sing-song chant. The buzz breaks into cheering, at the end, spontaneous and coordinated in the way of familiar social traditions.

Thrawn, seated at a data terminal, is unfamiliar with the ritual, but he hears the tempo of the noise. He looks up. Vanto is leaning out of the door, but he is not adding to the sound. Thrawn rises, peers into the hall over his shoulder. Nothing in one direction but cheering faces. In the other direction: Virgilio, walking down the hall, playfully shoving another officer before him.

“Is that Lieutenant Deyland?” Thrawn asks.

“Yeah,” Vanto says.

“I see,” says Thrawn. “And what, may I ask, is a Grand Tour?”

“Oh,” says Vanto after a moment, drawing back into the room. “He’s getting married. He sent in his application about three months ago.”

Thrawn tilts his head, raises an eyebrow. “Explain.”

“Imperial Futures Programme.”

“I see,” says Thrawn again. He does understand how that works, at least on a superficial level. The Imperial Futures Programme: state-sponsored matchmaking for Devotionals. Vanto, who is what Imperials call a Constant, enviably free from the clutches of Devotion, a state of even-keeled normalcy for which the Chiss have no specific word, has a certain disdain for it. Thrawn understands the sentiment. “But,” Thrawn continues, “that does not quite tell me what a Grand Tour is.”

“It’s a drinking party, basically,” says Vanto. “When an Eminent gets matched, he goes around and visits each of the other officers on the ship, and they have a couple toasts and chat for a while. Gives everyone a chance to say congratulations personally. Gives the guy a chance to socialize with people he might not get to relax with that often — that’s mostly to the benefit of lower-ranking officers, a way to get a foot in the door socially with their superiors. Being matched is… sort of the entrance card into the grown-ups club, I guess. Most officers apply for a match once they make Lieutenant. And it gives everyone an excuse to drink a lot.” Vanto’s face shows a tired kind of judgement.

“I see,” says Thrawn again. “And we should be prepared to host Lieutenant Deyland?”

“Well, you should,” Vanto says.

“You will not participate?” 

“Well, it’s more that I’m not expected to. Constants take over the mess during a Grand Tour; we have our own party, and it keeps us all out of the way. The officer on Tour usually stops by at the start and waves at everyone, but that’s about it.” 

Thrawn is not really surprised. There are no laws, so far as he can tell, that separate Constants and Eminents, but in practice there is a great deal of social stratification. And in this case, Thrawn thinks it makes a certain amount of sense — what Deyland is celebrating is not exactly an experience a Constant could be expected to share. “What does hosting entail, exactly?” 

“Not much,” Vanto says with a shrug. “You should be prepared to talk to him for a little while at least. Don’t worry about the drinks — the man on Tour’s supposed to bring that with him. It’s a chance to for him to show off his good taste. I think it’s pretty insulting if someone offers a drink to him, actually.”

“I see. And how long should I be expected to play host for Lieutenant Deyland?”

“Well,” says Vanto, “that’ll be up to him.”

“Oh?”

“It’ll depend on how much of a friend he thinks you are,” Vanto clarifies.

“Ah,” says Thrawn. “I suppose we will find out.”

Deyland is several toasts into his evening when he finally makes his way to Thrawn. Captain Virgilio is with him.

“Congratulations on your good fortune, Lieutenant,” Thrawn says to Deyland gravely, accepting a proffered glass.

Deyland, a little bleary-eyed, smiles. “Thank you very much, Lieutenant.”

“Please, sit, Captain,” Thrawn says, nodding at Virgilio. “Lieutenant Deyland. May I ask when you made your application?”

“Oh,” says Deyland, like he knows he’s supposed to be embarrassed, “about three months ago.”

“He dragged his feet about it long enough,” says Virgilio with gentle humor. There is only a faint hint of stern disapproval lurking beneath it. “But they matched him quick enough.”

“Indeed,” says Thrawn, who does not know and does not care what the average time to find a match is. “How are your matches made, if I may ask?”

“Ah, genetic screening,” says Deyland. “And then you meet each other.”

“To see if you find one another agreeable?” A polite way of asking if it is to test if they will become Devoted. Not all couples do. Some react as strongly to one another as two still glasses of water.

“Well,” says Deyland, suddenly looking awkward, turning a little pink, “Adherents don’t get too much of a choice, really.” He coughs. “She seemed pleased enough with me, though.” His expression shows the strain of real anxiety. “At least,” he says, voice rough with sudden honesty and a twinge of fear, “I hope she is.”

There is a slightly awkward silence. “She’s a lucky woman,” Virgilio says smoothly.

“Indeed, she is,” Thrawn agrees mildly. “And you are pleased as well?”

Deyland’s face heats like a radiator, and a smile cracks across it, awkward but sincere. “She’s… yes. Yes, I am. Very much. Yes.”

Thrawn allows himself a small smile of his own. Mostly it is from understanding. Imperials speak of their Devotionals in terms of mastery and ownership, splitting them into two distinct types, but from his own experience, he believes the truth is much more in line with the way Lieutenant Deyland is behaving. The Ascendancy’s terminology, he thinks, is much more accurate to the problem.

“I am sure she will be most pleased by you, Lieutenant,” says Thrawn gently. And he hopes that it is true. He hopes for both their sakes that somewhere, Deyland’s match is equally giddy with childish relief and starry-eyed hope. He holds out his glass. “Shall we toast once more?”

“Of course, Lieutenant,” says Deyland, still smiling.

“To the future happiness of your Adherent,” Thrawn says, guessing at something that sounds acceptable, and which he intends to speak to Deyland’s particular distress, “which I am sure you will provide.”

Deyland doesn’t say anything, but his smile flickers. Thrawn wonders if he has miscalculated. “I know I’ll try,” Deyland says, as somber and determined as a soldier.

“I am confident you will succeed,” Thrawn says gently. And that makes Deyland smile again, although it is a little uncertain.

Virgilio gives Thrawn a considering look. “You know,” he says, “we ought to see if we can do anything for you. The Futures Programme can’t do anything official for a non-human Eminent, but I could ask around —”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Captain,” Thrawn says before Virgilio can get any further, “but you need not trouble yourself.”

Virgilio is still looking at him consideringly. “You should at least think about it. I’d be happy to try and do what I can. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“I certainly will,” says Thrawn.

Becoming Devoted. Thrawn himself had avoided it assiduously in the Ascendancy.

Largely it had been because he had not wanted to give up his work to spend the rest of his life sequestered with a breeding partner. Whatever mystery of biology bound Devotionals together also made them much more likely to produce children gifted with the Third Sight than the average fertile couple, and Devotionals, more concerned with their bond to one another than their duties to the Chiss, were not considered trustworthy for much besides the breeding of pilots.

Not an ideal existence, from Thrawn’s perspective.

Although it had seemed appealing, once. Only once —  _ Typical of you to develop a fetish for an alien species,  _ Thrass had muttered at him.

Thrawn had not really considered Ferasi a  _ fetish.  _ He had only —

He had felt much the same as he imagines Deyland feels: he had wanted to be a person she could admire, to provide for her, to do the things she wanted him to do, to… make her feel good, above all else. To give her whatever she wanted or needed to be happy. There had been an easy, reliable simplicity to doing things that pleased her, which had given the prospect of Devotion most of its appeal.  

Of course, the question had been just as academic then as it is now. The Ascendancy would never have permitted such a match, and frankly it is just as well that the Empire has precisely the same attitude about inter-species Devotion, though from a different direction.

He is still not particularly interested in being sidetracked from his work.

 

~*~

 

The problem Arihnda has on Coruscant isn’t acquiring suppressants.

It’s faking the lab testing.

“Arihnda Pryce, always right on time.” The lab tech is a bony woman of indeterminate age, with short blonde hair and a fake tan.

“The Empire runs on timeliness, Solan, you know that.” Arihnda extends a hand. She is holding out a vial of blood — in theory, her own. “Latest sample.”

“You know I’m supposed to draw it myself.”

“If only you’d remembered that the first time I offered you a little sweetener to look the other way. Do I need to play the recording again, or are we going to stop having this conversation every month?”

Solan’s face sours sharply, for a moment, and then she shrugs it off. “I need something to say for small-talk,” she says, feeding the sample into the centrifuge. “How many copies of that audiofile do you have, anyway?”

“At least one more than I need, I’m sure.”

The centrifuge is built into the base of a complicated data terminal that scans the blood sample and starts spitting a familiar pattern of glowing green letters across its screen. It begins by matching the sample to the genetic profile stored in Coruscant’s central Imperial Personnel Records as  _ Arihnda Pryce. _

Both the blood and the genetic profile, of course, belong to Elainye Pryce. Elainye frets about this deception with each new sample just as she had fretted about providing the genetic profile in the first place —  _ it’s one thing to keep your status private, Arihnda, but to outright lie to the Empire — _ but Arihnda persuades her, month after month, to keep on helping. And month after month, Elainye ships her a small vial of blood.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” says Solan. “What’s your habit, anyway? You don’t seem like a spice-head.”

“My habit’s mine, thank you,” says Arihnda, smiling poison darts at Solan as she takes a copy of her very clean, very official test results. “See you next month.”

The truth is Solan might not even care if Arihnda did tell her. Arihnda knows she’s not the only person in this position: refusing to take the Empire’s idea of her proper place at face value, wriggling her way through the tangled maze of the system to get to what she wants — though most of them, she suspects, are female Eminents, or perhaps male Adherents, both whom are better off passing as Constants than anything else.

It’s lucky for Arihnda and whoever the rest of her ilk are, she thinks for the umpteenth time, that humans, even Eminents, usually can’t tell Constants and suppressed Adherents apart, except sometimes at the height of a heat.

Although, that problem is getting worse. She’s upped her course of suppressants twice already since leaving Lothal, but it's only a temporary solution. The side effects of both heavy doses and continuous use are rather unpleasant. At some point, she’ll have to take personal leave and… just endure, probably.

 

~*~

 

It is just one more example of the Empire’s similarity to the Ascendancy, Thrawn thinks, that he finds himself forced to let Colonel Wullf Yularen parade him through a series of social functions, drumming up political support. 

Still, it gives him an interesting opportunity to observe the Imperial civilian elite.

“Renking’s not the most important,” Yularen says to him in a low voice as they make their way across the room towards a short, fat man with a hideously bristling beard, “but he knows people, and he can certainly cut a deal when he needs to.” Thrawn does not reply. After a short pause, Yularen adds: “And he’s from a world with potentially quite valuable mining interests in the Outer Rim. If things keep on the way they are, the Navy’s going to be very busy out there: cleaning up piracy, securing Imperial resources. It’s in your interest to start making contacts from those sectors.”

“I understand,” says Thrawn. “Thank you, Colonel.”

“No trouble. Let me start the talking.”

“Of course,” says Thrawn. This is how it’s been with every introduction thus far, and doubtless how it will be with all the rest. His gaze wanders idly over the crowd. So long as he keeps his head pointed in the right direction, he can move his eyes almost anywhere and they don’t notice; they track each other’s attention so much by the angles of their pupils and irises, these creatures. It is perhaps the only small physical signal of their own species they can be relied upon to interpret accurately. Body temperature, of course, is lost on them: they are thin-skinned compared to Chiss, but can not see the fluctuations of their temperatures unless it breaks through into a flushing or paling of the skin — a rare occurrence, always tied to a fever pitch of violent emotion, which they view as semi-erotic, he’s gathered. Their sense of hearing is pathetic, truly. The can’t perceive subtle changes in heart rate and breathing — the latter, like blushing, only sometimes breaking through the barrier of their dull awareness, and only then in extremis. And they barely have a sense of smell.

Their body language, such as it is, lacks subtlety, as well. It is aggressive, bombastic, and here, on full display. Everything they do seems to be a kind of pompous mugging for attention: a puffed up mummery, where even their companions serve as mere accessories. This applies especially, he notes, to their Devotionals. It is not just their language which creates distinction where there is no difference. They behave in accordance with their vocabulary — and it is, he finds, decidedly unattractive. He notes only one or two true Devotions, subtly concealed like a precious secret between the Devoted; mostly, he sees a pastiche of domination and subservience that mimics the social model of the Empire writ large.  

And that, he thinks, is the entire logic of their system of managing their Devotionals. It is a more subtle, and vastly more effective, sort of social architecture than he had initially realized — but perhaps he had merely been giving Palpatine too little credit. The Adherents trapped in their slave-like role provide a marginally palatable template of obedience, and accustom Constants to accepting severe power relations as a regular part of daily life. The Eminents, by contrast, are trained to carry total power over other lives lightly, almost casually: the normal foundation of their most intimate sphere becomes the easy tempo of all that they do, and they model normal, casual dominion over others for their peers and subordinates. It is to the benefit of the entire system that true Devotions are so rare, and that Adherents are so cowed.

So he is vaguely surprised when one of them joins their little conversational group, radiating easy self-possession in spite of the fact that she is obviously, at least to Thrawn’s perception, very close her Intensity —  _ heat _ , the Imperials call it. She is deferential precisely to the point of appropriate politeness and no further, and is introduced as one of the Senator’s aides. Yularen, himself a Devotional, seems utterly unfazed by her presence.

Perhaps, Thrawn thinks, there is a special circumstance here of which he is unaware.

He and Vanto fall a little behind Yularen as the group breaks up, for a moment.

“Ensign Vanto,” he asks idly as they trail Yularen, “does the Empire ever make exceptions to its ban on Adherents in government service?”

Vanto frowns. He has not been enjoying his evening. Thrawn privately extends all the sympathy which he thinks this is due, although that is not much; one’s profession has certain requirements, and someday Vanto will be more at ease with them. “I don’t think so,” Vanto says. He looks around the room, unsubtle. “Why, did you see —”

“It is merely idle curiosity, Ensign Vanto,” he says. So perhaps there is no special circumstance. Perhaps it is merely that humans are indeed that much less perceptive. In the which case, there are certainly others like the self-possessed woman. But it is not, frankly, that interesting of a topic. “Do you know who this is?” He gestures vaguely with his chin in the direction of the person Yularen is approaching.

Vanto grimaces. “No clue,” he says. “But I’m sure the Colonel will clear it up for us in a second.” And indeed, Yularen is turning towards them, gesturing with a hand, pulling them in.

“So it seems,” Thrawn murmurs, suppressing a smile.

 

~*~

 

Arihnda is sent away too soon to learn as much as she’d wanted to, but being sent off with Ghadi presents its own potential opportunities, and she doesn’t mind too much.

Of course, it doesn't go nearly as well as she's hoping.

Afterwards, she’s angry at Ghadi, of course. And she’s angry at Renking. And she’s angry at herself.

But mostly, she’s angry at the way the spice interacts with her suppressants. 

At first, she thinks the fever building just beneath her skin is the only effect of the drug.

Then, her thoughts begin to lose their shape. Their logic. 

She knows what’s coming next.

She snatches the data card from Ghadi, does as he’s asked, and races her body’s deterioration all the way back to her guest room in Driller’s apartment. Locks the door behind her. Waits for her misery.

The fevered feeling, the burning waves in her skin, bleeds into her brain, like there’s a fire in her skull — and then the aching starts: the feeling of being sore and swollen between her legs, the hot, tight, wet twitching there; the heavy, almost bruised feeling in her breasts, the awful humming desperation all over for touch, touch, touch of any kind.

She’s been through it more than enough times to know what to expect. She knows the things her body is begging for won’t help, really. This is a hunger that is indifferent to being fed: a mindless, gluttonous compulsion. Gorging it leaves a different sort of misery, after the worst is passed. 

All there is to do, really, is bear it until it breaks.

For three days, she bears it.

Lucky for her, Driller and Juahir and all their friends are true Constants, and let her keep the door closed, and don’t bother her, and take her excuses (grief, frustration) at face value. An Eminent, she knows, would have smelled the primitive, brainless hormonal  _ come-hither _ exuding from her pores, and then — it is very lucky, she thinks again, that no one in the apartment is one.

When it’s over, she ups her dose of suppressants again. Just a little. Just in case.

 

~*~

 

Deyland is also on Coruscant for Ascension week. He calls Thrawn by holo, shortly after he and Vanto are re-assigned to the  _ Thunder Wasp _ . He offers his sympathy about the whole affair, says how glad he is that the court-martial came to nothing, invites them both for drinks.  

Thrawn makes the journey on his own.

“Lieutenant,” Deyland says, holding out a hand when Thrawn arrives, “I’m sorry to hear you’re being reassigned.”

“Certainly it is better than being discharged,” Thrawn says mildly. “I am glad to see that you are well.”

“Oh, you have no idea. Come in, please. I’d like you to meet —” he half-turns, looking for someone, a glow coming into his face as she comes into the room — “Leonora. Leonora, this is the Lieutenant. Lieutenant, my wife.”

“A pleasure, ma’am,” Thrawn says politely, shaking her hand, as well.

Leonora is a mousy woman in stature, looks, and attitude, but Deyland dotes on her, and she on him. Deyland’s hands are ever-mobile: his fingers are constantly flickering over her shoulders, neck, hair, brushing her cheek, stroking her wrists, touching her knee. And she behaves much the same towards him. They have become, it is obvious, and lucky for both of them, Devoted to each other — the unrefined ore of special attraction between them transformed by the fire of an Intensity into a steel bond. What he is watching is not really what human Constants call love, but it is not entirely different, either. 

What he is watching is precisely what would have happened to him, he is certain, if he had crossed the boundary of intimacy with Ferasi.

They spend a polite thirty minutes or so chatting, the three of them, before Thrawn extricates himself. Deyland says Thrawn should stay in touch, and let him know if there’s ever anything he can do to help. Leonora touches his arm, warmly, and tells him he is always welcome.

That night, he dreams of Ferasi.

 

~*~

 

Arihnda finds it’s harder to buy suppressants on her Higher Skies salary than it had been even at Proam Avenue, but she doesn’t have to navigate the monthly testing anymore so it sort of evens out. Everyone who works at Higher Skies is a Constant, anyway, so she saves a little by dropping her dose, again, down to the minimum. Low enough that she still has heats, in fact, though they are relatively mild.

 

~*~

 

The self-possessed Adherent who had worked for Renking is at one of the dojos they visit with Yularen.

Thrawn sees her as soon as they enter the dojo, as if she were a beacon, saying to him:  _ this is the place you are seeking _ . It is part of a larger pattern woven through his investigation, and impersonal, he is sure: the Outer Rim, Doonium, an ambitious woman who hovers on the periphery. Somehow all connected. It does not strike him as strange that her presence should provide the confirmation that, of every dojo on Coruscant, Yinchom is the one they want. 

Nor, apparently, does she seem to find his presence strange. She sees him just as quickly as he sees her, and moves across the room instantly, as if she were drawn by a magnet. 

As they walk together, talk together, stand together, he feels a faint, low thrum in his nerves. There is a shine of sweat on her skin from the work she has been doing, and a scent that reminds him of the expensive tabac Captain Cheno had favored and the velvet-petaled roses Leonora keeps in her sitting room is rising gently with the heat of her body, twining through his thoughts like incense — 

That night, he dreams of Ferasi again.

“Ensign Vanto,” Thrawn says idly the next day, “what becomes of an Adherent if they are discovered to have obtained some employment barred to them?”

Vanto looks up from his datapad, frowning. “Why?”

“Curiosity.”

“Right. For any reason in particular?”

“Consider it a sign of general inquisitiveness.”

“Right,” says Vanto again, still frowning. “They’re… if they’re considered recoverable, they’re sent to a corrective facility. If not, prison. And if they’re really offensive… There were a couple public executions in the Lysatran system early on, just to make sure everyone understood the rules.”

“I see.”

Vanto frowns a little harder. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Of course.”

“If you think you saw someone in a job they’re not supposed to be in…” He trails off, then gathers himself. “Technically, you can be discharged, or even imprisoned for failure to report. If they’re on the ship, I don’t think you have much choice about saying something. But personally, if it were me, and I had the option, I’d rather pretend I didn’t see anything.”

 

~*~

 

The heat is stronger than usual, enough that it makes Arihnda wonder if she needs to up her dose again. She knows that heats sometimes get worse with age. The fever begins at the dojo, while she’s talking to that same man — alien — trying to suss out what, precisely, he’s after. Her body doesn’t really cool down, while she’s watching him. And the ache starts, too.

The feeling persists for days. The suppressants hold the worst at bay, but only barely. 

When Ottlis invites her out, she can hardly say anything but yes. He might be a Constant, but sometimes any relief is better than none. And when she’s on the suppressants, sometimes the hunger can be almost be relieved. 

She has such hopes for relief.

Of course, it doesn’t work out that way.

 

~*~

 

“Sir?” Vanto lets himself into the office. It had been Captain Cheno’s; Thrawn feels almost impolite, taking over so quickly. But there is work to be done. “You’ve got a message from — Arihnda Pryce? Isn’t that the woman from the dojo?”

Thrawn’s head snaps up. He rises from the desk just as quickly, though with a little more grace. “Indeed, Ensign Vanto. Does it say anything of interest?”

“Just that she’d like you to give her a call back, if you have the time. Is this about Higher Skies, do you think?”

“We shall find out. Forward her contact information to my private channel, if you would.”

Vanto only pauses a moment, then says: “Yes, sir.”

And Thrawn does not really blame him for the touch of skeptical judgement, there. There is a part of Thrawn’s own mind that is questioning his actions as his feet carry him to his private quarters.

Perhaps Thrass had been right, after all.

Which is what he finds himself thinking, again, as he sits alone in a diner and waits for a woman he barely knows, who has not even told him what she wants. He has reasonable confidence that it will be something… interesting. Or at least worth his while.

But the truth is, he admits with some bitterness, he won’t care if it’s not. It’s the smell of her sweat, mellow with earthy spice, and the stress he’d heard in her breathing when he’d called her back, which had suggested the way her breath might feel against his ear, that have brought him here, as surely as hooks in his flesh might have dragged him.

It is partly out of resentment for this that he snaps at her the moment she arrives. Politely, of course, but still — though she is more or less unfazed. She is obviously burning with the fire of her Intensity, which he had expected from both the scent of her at the dojo and the sound of her voice on the call, but she seems able, interestingly, to ignore it. The problem before her is engrossing enough, or enraging enough, that she can master herself, at least for a while. And clearly, he realizes, she does not see that she is having any effect at all on him. Which is, he decides, pressing his feet firmly into the cheap tiling beneath the table and keeping his body precisely still except for a few sharp gestures with his hands, just as well.

When she finally hits upon whatever the answer to her dilemma is — she does not deign to explain her plans to him — she rises from the table, her face set with the grim determination of a warrior, her body blazing with a different kind of intensity altogether.

He stays seated for several minutes after she departs.

He is not remotely surprised to find that he dreams, yet again, of Ferasi — but she is not quite right. She does not quite behave like herself. Her flesh, pillow-soft, envelops him like velvet, but her nails sink into his skin like knives. The motions of her body are sharp-edged and ravenous, desperate almost to the point of violence. Her breathing is harsh and strained in his ear, and the sound rips through his mind like flame. He wakes spent and sweating, and he is grateful for the privacy of his quarters.

He decides it will be wiser if he does not speak to Arihnda Pryce again.

He does, however, put Yularen in touch with her.


	3. Act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two people cross paths again, rather more intentionally, but still remain busy with their own lives. (Note: there are two state-sponsored murders in this chapter. Both happen off-screen.)

As Arihnda proceeds into Tarkin’s office, she finds she’s glad that she has been taking triple her normal dose of suppressants. If they leave her body feeling like cold lead, and leave her no emotions but snapping anger, the price is more than worth the benefits. Tarkin, she thinks, looks like exactly the kind of Eminent who would make it a point to teach her her place — which doesn’t surprise her, really, considering that he is the chief architect of the Imperial Futures Programme. She falters in her stride for only half a moment when she has this thought, and makes up for it by redoubling her pace as she approaches him, and introducing herself when she is only three-quarters of the way across the room.

“I believe I have information that will interest you, Excellency,” she says, at the end of her introduction.

“Indeed. You are here representing the Higher Skies advocacy group?”

“Actually, no, Excellency. I can’t claim I care much for Higher Skies’ policy platform.” And here’s the moment to make the right impression. “Adherents’ Rights,” she says dismissively, “that sort of nonsense.”

“Adherents’ Rights,” he repeats with snide derision. “I see.”

“Yes, Excellency,” she says. “As I said, I’m not representing them.”

“No?” His voice has all the perfectly languorous self-assurance of a deadly predator. “Then who are you representing, if I may ask?”

_ You are his equal,  _ she tells herself quickly.  _ You are the equal of anyone.  _ “I represent myself.”

 

~*~

 

Distance has accomplished its purpose, Thrawn thinks. His dreams have become less intrusive, which is what he prefers. And she has made, he notes, no more effort to contact him than he has to contact her; a line of contact to the ISB seems to be more than thanks enough for the change in the Thunder Wasp’s standing for repairs. Sometimes, still, in the liminal moment of waking, he thinks he smells something dark and sweet, mellow with earthy spice — but there is little more than that.

 

~*~

 

Arihnda’s life is changing in ways she more or less enjoys. If she feels it necessary to stay on her triple-strength dose of suppressants, it seems a small cost. The Imperial Palace is more or less crawling with Eminents, most of them extremely astute and exceptionally aggressive — a little caution on her part, she thinks, is best for everyone.

And the Imperial Palace is worth any price for admission. 

The heavy lead feeling of her body, the dull far-away, ugly quality of her emotions, such as the ones that remain to her have; the fact that food has little in the way of taste, that art and light and music have little in the way of beauty, that her own heart has little in the way of joy; the fact that marching through her day sometimes feels like slogging through mud; the fact that focusing and thinking are sometimes exhausting, miserable tasks that leave her drained and deflated, stripped like a husk by the end of the day — well, all of that is an acceptable price. All of that can be managed. All of it is bearable. 

She is where she belongs, and that is satisfaction enough.

And Tarkin seems satisfied with her, too.

_ Ah, Governor Pryce _ , said with a bit of dry humor and a touch, she thinks, of curious, serpentine admiration, is how he greets her whenever he sees her, which, for the duration of this initial training period, seems to be every day. He has so far been curious as to how she found her tutors, her curriculum, did she have an opinions on Imperial policies for the Outer Rim — all tests, all passed.

“Ah, Governor Pryce,” Tarkin says as she passes him in the hall, moving from one classroom to another.

“Excellency,” she says, turning neatly from her path.

“It happens I’ll be seeing your associate Commander Thrawn this afternoon.”

“Oh?” It is always best to be a little reserved with Tarkin; the performance of deference has the added benefit of letting one see a trap, if there is one, and skirt it, if it’s possible. And Tarkin, ever the hunter, does love his traps.

“Yes. I’ve spoken with the High Command; the remaining charges at Court Martial and the matter of his aide’s overdue promotions is to be rectified.”

To her own surprise, Arihnda starts. “Only his aide’s promotions?”

Tarkin raises an eyebrow. “You hoped for more? Or perhaps you offered him something?”

“I have offered him nothing more than we discussed, Excellency,” she says soothingly. “I am only a little surprised.”

“Indeed? Most people would say he has been promoted rather rapidly — especially considering his circumstances. You disagree? Or perhaps you have a recommendation?” There is a touch of humor in his voice, and his face. Cold, dangerous humor — but humor nonetheless.

If she is ever going to test the waters here, she may as well begin. “I was only thinking, Excellency, that given the state of unrest in the Outer Rim, the Empire might benefit from giving him a little more authority — he does get results, after all.”

“Indeed,” says Tarkin. The humor is still there. “Perhaps you would like to give him a star destroyer?” He is, she thinks, teasing her — which means she is on relatively safe ground.

“I certainly would not object to the idea,” she says smoothly.

“As it happens, Governor,” Tarkin says, smiling slightly, “I agree with your assessment. He is to be promoted to Commodore, and will receive command of the Imperial Star Destroyer  _ Chimaera.  _ I, personally, plan to make use of his talents — and of course,” he continues wryly, “I appreciate you bringing him to my attention directly.”

Arihnda keeps her face perfectly neutral. Inside, she feels something that might be relief — or perhaps, elation. “I am glad to have been of service, Excellency.”

“Indeed you have been.” Tarkin gives her a considering look. “Perhaps you would like to come to this promotion ceremony in person, to see your recommendations in action?”

“No, Excellency,” she says carefully, “I expect that might rather give the game away.”

The considering look is still on Tarkin’s face. “Perhaps it would.”

“But —” she says with a sudden flash feeling, a need for Thrawn to  _ know,  _ to know that his good fortune comes from  _ her _ — “please  _ do _ convey my congratulations to him.”

“I certainly shall, Governor.”

 

~*~

 

_ Consider this a bonus. _

Thrawn can not help but be amused by it. Of course she has accomplished her goal, and more besides. Surprise is not remotely a part of his reaction to Tarkin’s news — only amusement, and…  _ A ferocious mien: face set, body blazing. The smell of tabac and roses — _

Thankfully, he does not have much time to dwell on it, no more than he allows Vanto to dwell on his own good fortune.

In assuming command of the _Chimaera_ he runs a little roughshod over protocol, but he is eager to begin his work.

“The  _ Chimaera _ is fully at your command, Commodore.” Faro has an energetic but self-contained demeanor; the surprise she obviously feels at his sudden arrival is admirably compartmentalized, and barely a flicker of it shines through after the first moment of shock. She is also, he discerns quickly, a Constant; rare indeed at her level of authority, which gives Thrawn immediate confidence in her abilities.

“Thank you, Commander Faro,” he says. “I would appreciate if you remain on the bridge while I review the logs from the CIC. We will then make a tour of the ship, beginning with the weapons decks. You are prepared to introduce me, I assume?”

“Yes, Commodore.”

“Good. And inform the senior officers that they are to assemble in the Wardroom at 1400 hours. We will schedule individual meetings over the course of the upcoming week, but I should like to greet them all personally this afternoon. And, of course, to dine with them this evening. We will have a full change of command ceremony the week after next, I believe.”

“Yes, sir. I have a suggested schedule for one-on-ones, if you’d care to review it.”

Thrawn raises his eyebrows. “Very helpful, Commander. I will review it this afternoon.”

It is very late indeed when his day draws to a close.

“Lieutenant Commander Vanto,” Thrawn asks, sinking into the desk chair, “you have reviewed Commander Faro’s suggested schedule for meetings with the senior officers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you wish to offer any recommendations?”

Vanto thinks for a moment. “She knows her people, obviously.”

“Indeed.”

“But I might want to speak to the COB first, or at least second, right after the old XO. I know that’s flipping her list on its head —”

“No, Lieutenant Commander Vanto, it is a sound suggestion. And I concur. I will meet with him tomorrow — some time mid-morning, I think? Please make the necessary adjustments to my schedule.”

“Yes —” Vanto stifles a yawn — “sir. Will there be anything else?”

“No, Lieutenant. You are dismissed.”

Vanto withdraws, dog-tired exhaustion loud in his flat-footed step. Thrawn has already turned his attention to his workstation before the door closes behind his aide; he has the task before him, still, of reading every service record for each of the  _ Chimaera _ ’s officers, and many of her senior crew. Or at least of skimming them. 

But he feels his focus waver.

_ Consider this a bonus.  _

Thrawn sits at his desk for a long while, thinking — and in the end, decides it is still wise not to send her a message of any sort.

He dreams, nevertheless, of Ferasi — or a version of her, anyway. She smells like tabac and roses. 

When he wakes, he thinks idly that perhaps, if she ever presents him with another opportunity, he will try to be a little more helpful to Arihnda Pryce. Certainly she has returned his help to him in kind, and then some.

And it can probably be done from a distance.

 

~*~

 

Eventually Arihnda stops noticing, really, how the suppressants make her feel. She takes them punctually, one dose overlapping just so with the other, so she is never without their influence. She no longer worries about heats, or about any Eminent discovering her secret. The dead feeling in her flesh, and the hollow feeling where  _ feelings  _ used to be, become simply her normal state. She knows, on some level, there may be other, permanent consequences to her health if she continues, but it hardly seems to matter. Her body is just a thing that lets her move from place to place, and her mind still functions well enough for the tasks before it. Her existence is automatic, animated solely by benchmarks of accomplishment, and the reward of grim satisfaction.

And she does accomplish.

On Coruscant, she is Tarkin’s lackey, yes, but that’s not so terrible. He trusts her to execute, to inform, to succeed — and she does. Moffs and Senators whom Tarkin dislikes fall by the wayside, felled by the scalped-like blade of her clever designs. Tarkin rewards her: she is roped into briefings, introduced to Eminents of great importance, accepted almost as one of their own.

She feels grim satisfaction.

She meets the Emperor. The experience is terrifying, and after she finds her memories of it are somewhat unclear. But she survives. And the Emperor, Tarkin informs her, finds her pleasant.

She feels grim satisfaction about that, too.

But, she thinks, she could still accomplish more. And she thinks there is one person she might lean on for help. If nothing else, he owes her.

 

~*~

 

Thrawn is reading logs from the CIC, considering how best to improve training for the crewers on weapons stations. They are, of course, perfectly adequate to Imperial standards, but he notices that they are less and less coordinated the further they are deployed from Coruscant. It is a troubling pattern, whose source he cannot yet discern.

Vanto is reviewing his correspondence. A petty task, but one that Thrawn trusts to no one else. “You’ve got a message from — Governor Pryce?” Vanto frowns at the screen before him. “I’d almost forgotten about her.”

Thrawn looks up, almost casually. He had thought, truly, that she had lost interest in him. Or at least that she considered their business concluded, which was just as well for him. “Oh?” he says. “What is it?”

“Ah — a presentation of…” Vanto is silent for a moment, skimming. “A comparison of the Lothal and Kintoni systems. Apparently Kintoni is offering to expand its naval installations, and she’d like your opinion on whether or not Lothal would be a better base of naval operations. So — she’s going to ask the High Command for money and she wants you to back her, I think.”

“Indeed,” says Thrawn.  _ Consider this a bonus.  _ He suspects it is likely a bit more than that.  _ I thought maybe we could help each other out.  _ In any case, it is an opportunity to be useful. And it won't hurt to — “Forward it to my quarters.”

He reads it twice. It is a fair presentation. Honest about Lothal’s disadvantages. Honest about Kintoni’s benefits. He confirms her claims about both, independently. The systems are evenly matched, and truly, the superficially better choice appears to be Kintoni — but he decides to sleep on the question. It is not pressing.

He dreams of Csilla.

The superficially obvious choice, he decides, is not, in this instance, the correct one. Lothal’s mining operations close the loop between raw production and finished equipment, he tells himself; the presence of a Sienar Fleet Systems laboratory will allow naval officers to coordinate directly on the design and testing of new technologies; the local agricultural production reduces the vulnerability of naval food supply; its expanding Academies provide a convenient source of new officers; and its very difficulties with pirates and rebel sympathizers are, counterintuitively, an advantage. The navy will set down in the nest of rats, and make them scatter. From chaos, order: he is certain.

The memo takes a full day to compose.

“Lieutenant Commander Vanto, would you see to it that this memo is delivered to Fleet Admiral Donassius?”

Vanto, who has of late begun to prove himself an apt and even-handed manager of personnel, is reviewing transfer applications. They are rare, and rarely honored, but they have begun to follow Thrawn as flowers follow rain. Vanto selects a few from the pile, whenever there is an opening aboard the Chimaera, for Thrawn’s review.

“Sure,” Vanto says. “What is it?”

“A recommendation that the navy place its new Outer Rim base on Lothal.”

There is a beat of silence. “I guess it was a persuasive presentation.”

Thrawn ignores Vanto’s tone. “Indeed it was. And if you could, find Governor Pryce’s private contact information.”

“Yes, Sir,” says Vanto tightly. Thrawn ignores the tone of that, too.

He is a little over-eager, he dimly knows, in trying to call her. She is busy. He ignores a twinge of disappointment; writes is off as irritation with the wasted moments, however few of them there were. He sets the feeling aside, and proceeds with his day. 

But he tells Vanto to see that communications forwards her call to him instantly, should she make one.

Which she does.

She is not quite how he remembers her. He is reserved with her, matches her tone, feels around the edges of her intentions, tries to gauge and to assess. Something is… flat, about her. She is encircled by a tight anxiety, but beneath it — He holds the fact that he has already recommended her plans to the High Command in reserve at first, like a surprise, and unfolds it before her when he expects it will have the best effect:  _ Look what I have done for you. Are you not pleased?  _ It does not get the response he hopes, which troubles him enough that, against his better judgement, he invites her to ask him for his advice, or his assistance.

His overture does not quite land as he intends, either, but perhaps that is no surprise. Just as well, really: she can not afford to give up her charade, any more than he can afford to endanger his position. Perhaps, he muses, it is the very unobtainable nature of the object that makes desiring it safe. Perhaps in a way that had been true of Ferasi, as well. Just as well that this also should be only an idle thought, and come to nothing.

But he dreams of tabac and roses.

 

~*~

 

On Lothal, Arihnda trades her scalpel for a hammer, and swings with vicious certainty.  _ Thinking  _ is still hard sometimes — clarity elusive — but she knows her place. She begins reshaping the planet of her birth according to the vision of Coruscant’s elite. The Naval presence expands, and she sets her mind to creating the space that’s needed for it. She tries to give the Empire the things it wants, and the Empire rewards her. She still spends a great deal of time on Coruscant, where Eminents at the apex of power treat her almost like an equal. It is almost everything she needs.

 

~*~

 

“Kriff,” Vanto mutters under his breath. He is reviewing correspondence again.

Thrawn glances up. “Is there something which requires my attention?”

“Yes,” says Vanto tightly. “We’re going to have to clear the schedule for the rest of the day.”

Thrawn narrows his eyes. “What has happened?”

“You remember Lyneo? One of the techs from the Dromedar?”

“Indeed I do. What of her?”

“Turns out she was an Adherent.”

Thrawn frowns. He had not noticed anything about Lyneo when he had worked with her — more evidence that he is a little more attentive in the matter of Arihnda Pryce than he should be, he thinks with mild frustration. “I would have thought testing for new recruits would reliably screen such persons out,” he says to Vanto.

“The testing’s not as stringent for people who aren't going into combatant or officer tracks, and it can get pretty lax in Wild Space or on the Outer Rim. Sometimes someone slips through.”

“How was she caught?”

“Something triggered a heat outside her regular cycle, I guess. And an ISB officer on board caught her and — well.”

Spontaneous Intensities, Thrawn knows, are triggered only by a Devotion. So one of the officers on board must have become Devoted to her. Not, he is reasonably certain, the ISB officer: whoever it was would not have reported her, not even if their own life rested in the balance. 

“Did she not have access to suppressants?”

“She probably didn't take them between cycles, or at least not a strong dose. They have some pretty nasty side-effects, especially from heavy or continuous usage — memory problems, mood swings, cognitive impairment. Permanently, for people who really abuse them. I think the medical guidelines are for a minimum dose, with at least one week’s discontinuation for a heat every three months. Something about hormones or brain chemistry, I don't really know how it works. She was probably just trying to stay healthy.”

“I see. What will become of her?”

“Well, apparently one of the officers on her ship appealed to have her reconditioned for the Futures Programme, and even put in an application with a special request to be matched to her specifically —” that would be her Devoted, Thrawn thinks “— which is pretty irregular, so he’s been temporarily suspended from duty pending investigation, and… and she's going to be executed, as a public example.”

Thrawn is silent for a moment. “I see,” he says.

“They're broadcasting it at noon, Coruscant time.”

“And all naval personnel are required to watch.”

“Yes, sir. It’ll only last an hour, but —”

“But you do not believe the crew will be fit for duty for the rest of the day.”

“Not really, no.”

“I see. And is this standard Imperial procedure with an event of this type?”

Vanto shifts uncomfortably. “No. But…”

“But standard practice is not always best practice?”

“Something like that,” says Vanto.

“Indeed. I concur, and your recommendation is noted. Please see to it that the shipwide schedules are adjusted accordingly.”

“Yes, sir.”

  
  


~*~

 

Arihnda makes, truly, her best effort on Lothal. But her best effort is not quite enough.

She pushes, and the stubborn people of her backwater birthplace push back. She strikes, and they strike back. It is enough of a problem that Tarkin himself feels compelled to step in — to settle the unrest before she fully takes command, he tells her. She is still learning the business of Governorship, after all.

It is a gracious excuse for her failure: a reprieve which will not be indefinite.

“Ah, Governor Pryce,” says Tarkin, voice light and deadly. It is a trap. Everything in the Empire, she is learning, is some kind of trap. “Unfortunate news about your staff. Minister Tua showed such promise.”

Arihnda has read the briefing. Tua is planning to deliver information to the Rebellion; the proof is clear. “Most unfortunate, Excellency,” Arihnda says darkly. She speaks a little more forcefully than she would in person; holocalls tend to grind up subtlety, especially across such massive distances. “I have asked Colonel Yularen to lend me access to ISB resources while I conduct a thoroughgoing investigation of the other planet-side staff.” She sees no reason to let Tarkin say aloud how poorly this reflects on  _ her.  _ That curve, at least, she can get ahead of.

“Indeed.” He says it distractedly. It is followed by a moment of silence. Somehow this is the worst possible reaction. “I’m afraid it is worse, however. I don’t expect you’ve heard this yet —” which means he  _ knows  _ she hasn’t — “as I’ve only just gotten the report myself —” possibly a lie, possibly true, not that it matters — “but Agent Kallus had a careful sweep of her office and home conducted, searching for biological markers. As it turns out, she is an Adherent. Probably that’s what made her sympathetic to the Rebels in the first place. She’s been faking her tests for years, it seems, ever since her Academy days. Full points to her for competence and skill on that front, galling though it may be. Almost a pity we couldn’t harness all that skill for ourselves.”

“A pity indeed, Excellency,” Arihnda says, to cover up a lack of anything else to say. Her voice is precise and formal — but there’s a cold hand of fear around her heart.

“Yes,” drawls Tarkin. “Still, it’s not a complete loss. She’s of good stock. Still quite young. I am considering having her reconditioned, and  — is something wrong, Governor?”

Arihnda forces a breath into her lungs, lets it out again slowly. “No, Excellency,” she says clearly.

Tarkin raises an eyebrow. “No? You weren’t attached to Tua, perhaps? I understand you and she were two of a very few native-born members of the Lothal government.”

Arihnda has to force her next breath, too. She is sweating, a little. And her heart is beating, suddenly, too fast.  _ I am considering having her reconditioned.  _ “No, Excellency. I always found Tua exceptionally stupid, but I thought her presence provided a certain amount of stability and continuity, given the abrupt nature of Governor Azadi’s departure.”

“I see. And that is all?”

Another breath. Her heart is still pounding wildly.  _ Having her reconditioned. _ “No, Excellency,” she says, voice somehow both low and strident. “I was only thinking — a Government official who turns out to be both an Adherent  _ and  _ a Rebel sympathizer —”

“Yes, I agree,” says Tarkin darkly. “One or other other would have been quite bad enough.”

“Yes.” Her heart hammers away. She controls her breathing. “Excellency, I was only thinking… This could be, potentially, quite embarrassing to the Empire in the Outer Rim, if it ever came to light.”

Tarkin is silent. She takes that as permission to continue.

“I was thinking…”  _ Reconditioned. _ “Perhaps it might be better to dispose of her permanently. Of course, if you believe she is valuable to the Futures Programme —”

“No, Governor Pryce,” says Tarkin, suddenly relaxed, “I quite agree. It would be better to clean this up completely. I am glad we discussed the matter.”

There is a rush of feeling in Arihnda’s chest she cannot quite identify. It is relief, maybe. “As am I, Excellency. I look forward to your return to Coruscant.”

“As do I, Governor. And I look forward to your permanent transfer to Lothal.”

“Thank you, Excellency.”

There is a moment after he disconnects where she sits in total silence, unmoving.

Then, heart hammering in her chest, hands shaking, body burning with waves and heat and cold, she finds herself accessing the Universal Connection System.

It happens almost as if she is observing a different person. As if she were not in control of her body. But she needs — she needs advice, maybe, or help, or — “I need to get a message through to Commodore Th—”

And then her mind catches up to her. She disconnects from the system without finishing her sentence. She takes a deep breath, and then another. Her hands are still shaking. She squeezes them into fists.

She will give the Empire what it wants. She will please Tarkin, and she will please Coruscant, and she will be rewarded. She will clear the Rebels from Lothal herself. 

And she does not need anyone to help her.


	4. Act III, Fin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two people step onto the same path. (There is some extremely disgusting implied sexism and also some extremely disgusting blatant sexism. Also remember I said these were dark people in a dark world doing dark things? Boy howdy this is not a light and cheery idea of romance. That is to say: sometimes a happy ending for two people spells unhappiness for others. But... I imagine Rebels continuity would be unchanged branching off from this, so there's that.)

It is luck, only luck, that lets her hear the news in time. She is lying in her bed, listening to the holonet broadcast, willing each part of her body to come alive, just minimally alive, so she can begin to move —

_Action on Scimm Island on the planet Batonn has dealt a significant blow to the so-called Rebels in the Outer Rim. We anticipate news of a complete victory by —_

Her body comes alive, surging into being on a wave of adrenaline. She’s on the comm before her brain is fully awake.

It’s luck that Yularen is able to answer — though not luck that he’s _willing_ to answer, of course, she’s made herself as useful to him as she has to Tarkin over the past couple of years.

“Arihnda, good morning, I’m afraid I haven’t much time —”

“This won’t take long, Colonel. I was just wondering, the Batonn system —”

“Yes, unfortunate mess. The last of the Rebels are holed up in the mining complex there called, let me see —”

“Creekpath.”

“Yes, that’s the one. You knew?”

“Based on my experience on Lothal, it’s more that I’m… not surprised. I was calling, actually, to see if I might be of assistance with the matter.”

“Ah, much appreciated. But I’m sure we have other mining exper —”

“I have personal contacts inside Creekpath. I thought I might be able to provide you with a man on the ground.”

There is a brief period of silence. Arihnda is sweating — a cold, clammy feeling all over her skin. Her heart is beating harder than it should, each pump a painful demonstration of the inescapable physicality, the pure blood-soaked reality, of a living body. Each pump, distorted with stress, hurts like strained muscle.

“How quickly can you be at the Imperial Palace?” Yularen says finally, suddenly, voice very somber. It’s luck, a saving grace granted by some power outside of human life, that she’s on Coruscant at all.

“Half a standard hour,” she says, too fast and too relieved.

“Well, hurry up. We can’t wait for you if it’s longer.”

It’s only when she’s on the shuttle with Yularen and his man of choice — a sort of standard-issue looking field agent named Gudry something, something Gudry, she doesn’t care — that she realizes she’s missed her suppressants.

She only has a momentary flash of anxiety. She’s not close, after all, to the part of her cycle she needs to worry about.

 

~*~

 

Distance has done perhaps a little less for Thrawn than he had hoped.

The air around her is heavy with the scent of tabac and roses, sharply tinged with adrenaline and… fear, he thinks. It doesn’t show in her body language, even her breathing is under admirable control, although her heart, which he hears faintly, is straining, but she stinks of terror. And the ready room they’re borrowing for the meeting quickly begins to stink as well, as if someone poured a bottle of perfume mixed with poison into the air circulation. Although, neither Yularen nor Gudry seem to notice.

It is not only that human senses are dull. It is also that he is, he knows by now, far more attentive to her than he should be. The unrefined ore of Devotion anchors his encounters with her like a magnet.

Which probably accounts for the sharp spike of fury he feels when her intentions become instantly clear to him in the space of a single phrase: _two of those civilians are my parents._

Not that it matters. He can hardly prevent her, not without doing something foolish for them both: revealing her status perhaps, or locking her in the brig. He is a little tempted by the latter option — more so the longer they speak. He does not have Yularen’s confidence in Gudry’s abilities as protector. He is rather more concerned about what might happen if the smothering aroma wafting through the room becomes any more apparent. ISB field agents are always, _always_ Eminents.

Instead, he only tells her to be safe.

 

~*~

 

Arihnda can hardly tell where the anxiety of her plans ends and the dwindling effect of her suppressants begins.

But she has practiced rigid self-control for nearly two uninterrupted years now: faking interest and energy and liveliness, forcing her body to behave like a puppet on a string. Controlling this new riot of nerves, of sweat and faint tremors, of waves of heat and cold, of a buzzing in her head and a sickness in her stomach, is not so different. It is the same problem, approached from a different direction. A little more difficult, perhaps, for her being so long out of practice with it, but not impossible. She feels almost like she has a heat beginning, had started feeling that way during the meeting on board the _Chimaera_ , but she knows that can’t possibly be true.

She concentrates on breathing, and on playing her part.

And it all goes perfectly, despite the fact that adrenaline is burning the lingering traces of her suppressants away like a forest fire burns underbrush. Gudry behaves as if nothing were obviously wrong with her, so she assumes that nothing is. He’s an Eminent, one of the brutally aggressive ones the ISB favors for field agents, and if he can’t tell, no one can.

Leaving him behind is remarkably easy.

Getting her parents to agree to her plan is also, thankfully, easier than she had feared.

She sets them packing, and, breathing through a fresh wave of nausea, begins timing out the rest of their escape.

 

~*~

 

“When he _retrieves_ Governor Pryce?”

Most of Yularen’s reply is lost on Thrawn, and irrelevant anyway. Thrawn looks towards the mining complex, seething quietly, breathing  through a wave of infuriated exasperation, and then just fury, and then a deeply inconvenient impulse to simply walk into Creekpath on his own.

“I would like you to assign a special duty squadron for exfiltration,” he says bluntly when Yularen’s fairly useless speculation reaches its end. “She will certainly be with her parents. I expect you can obtain their address, if you do not have it already.” And then, with a little flash of sense, he says: “It may have been necessary to separate from Gudry to preserve the fiction that her family is unaffiliated with the Empire. Likely they are attempting to preserve both Govenor Pryce’s cover and her family's reputation.” Which is certainly a plausible story — and better for Arihnda Pryce than what Thrawn actually suspects: that her suppressants have worn off completely, and that ushering her parents out of Creekpath safely is only possible for her now if Gudry does not cross her path again, and possibly not even then.

“An unfortunate miscommunication with your Agent is an acceptable cost, I believe,” Thrawn continues. “Tell Gudry he can leave on his own. The squadron will provide more reliable security for a small group than a single field agent, and we need his comm in hand as quickly as possible.”

Yularen frowns, but only for a moment. “Yes, I agree. You are heading back to the _Chimaera_?”

“I am.”

“Good. I’ll meet Gudry at ground command, and coordinate with you from there.”

“Very good, Colonel,” says Thrawn. He half-turns toward his vehicle — then turns back. “And Colonel? Assign Costants only to the special duty squadron, if you would. Doubtless passions will be running high within the complex, and Rebels are known to let Adherents fight on the front lines. This would not be the ideal time to discover that some member of the ground forces has somewhat less than iron self-restraint.”

“Yes, I agree,” says Yularen darkly. “Constants only.”

“And,” says Thrawn, another afterthought, “have your squadron deliver Governor Pryce directly to me aboard the Chimaera when they have her. I would like to speak with her about this little venture when our action against the Rebels is complete.”

“As would I,” says Yularen. “I’ll join you there after we're done on the ground. Good fortune, Admiral.”

“And to you, Colonel.”

Perhaps it is that certain emotions have been unearthed by discussing the true circumstances of his service to the Empire for the first time since his departure from the Ascendancy. Perhaps it is his frustration with Neville Cygni’s idiotic, self-sacrificing decision. Perhaps it is that he is simply tired of the things he desires being always, seemingly, just a hairsbreadth out of reach.

Whatever the origin, he has made a decision.

 

~*~

 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Gudry snarls from behind her.

Arihnda whirls, her nerves clattering. She hangs onto the data cards, if only barely.

“Helping your parents pack some precious memories?”

She takes a deep breath, wills herself to sound collected. “I’m glad you’ve made it back,” she says as smoothly as she can. It's a good thing she didn't drop the cards, she thinks: holding them gives her hands something to do besides shaking.

“Yeah? I don't think you are. See, I prepped the shield generator for remote detonation, same with their weapons cache — which I found all on my own, by the way — and then I thought I’d try and find my so-called mission partner before calling it quits — wouldn’t want to abandon a high-ranking official in the field, see, but just about when I got here, something interesting happened. I got a funny message from Yularen. I’m supposed to proceed to him at ground command and let an exfil squad pick you up. Apparently that cobalt creep knew you’d be here helping your family get out before the party started.”

“Oh?” says Arihnda, still trying to sound calm. “Then maybe you should do that.”

“Funny thing, though — you didn't tell Yularen or me to expect this. I take exception to that. And it makes me a little suspicious. I thought since I was already here you and I could have a little chat about it. With Yularen, of course. We’re going to see him, together. Just you and the ISB, without the alien abomination who’s apparently looking out for you. For all I know at this point he's one of the Rebels, too, giving you the time you need to complete whatever your real mission is — gathering up data cards, apparently. I’m willing to bet there's more than family photos on them.”

“My mission is exactly the same as yours,” she says, trying to her master defensiveness and confusion and smooth it over with reassurance. “I don't know what you're —”

“Oh shut your kriffing mouth, sweetheart,” he snarls. “Adherents really don't get the brains you find in a Nuna, do they? Hell, I’m not sure your type gets any brains at all.”

Arihnda freezes for a second, but only for a second. Then she snarls right back at him: “That's quite the unfounded accusation to level at a _Governor_ , Agent —”

“Oh please. I’ve been smelling slut-stink on you almost since we set foot in this crap town. Smells pretty good, too, if you want my opinion.”

“I don't —”

“Shut up,” he says again. He looks a little pensive for a minute, and lowers his blaster fractionally. “The only thing I’m really confused about is why you let yourself go into heat at all. You had to have that garbage pretty well on lockdown to work with Tarkin like you’ve done. Unless something triggered it and it caught you by surprise. Maybe it’s Mister Blue Sky up there — figures an Outer Rim bitch like you would get hot for a freak like that. Maybe that's why he wants you back with him shipside ASAP.” Then he shrugs. His blaster is a little lower still.

“Doesn't matter anyway,” he goes on casually. “I know what I know. And you’re coming with me to Yularen at ground command, now. We’re going to figure out how a sow like you managed to fake her way into the highest levels of Imperial government, and after that, if you play real nice, and Yularen feels bad enough for you, you might get earmarked for reconditioning.” He shrugs again. The blaster is almost pointed at the floor. “Or you’ll just die,” he says.

There's a soft gasp from the stair, and Arihnda and Gudry both look. Arihnda’s mother is there, frozen in terror.

In the split second Gudry needs to recover from his surprise and raise his blaster, Arihnda hurls the data cards at his face. His reflexive action to shield himself is all the distraction she needs to launch her body at him.

The fight is fast, and ugly, and incredibly brutal — but it ends with Gudry on his back, and Arihnda standing, blaster in hand.

Gudry doesn't seem impressed.

“Cute,” he snarls, starting to sit up. “Now give that back.”

“No.”

He snorts. “You're an _Adherent_ in _heat._ What’re you gonna do, shoot an Em—”

He doesn't get to finish the sentence.

“Arihnda,” Elainye says weakly from the stair. “Arihnda…”

“Finish packing,” Arihnda says, voice unnaturally shrill. It’s a command given half on autopilot.

“Arihnda,” her mother says again, and Arihnda whirls on her, and snarls.

“ _Finish packing, now.”_

Elainye trembles there for half a moment more, and then whirls and practically runs.

Arihnda drops to her knees beside Gudry. She has been responsible for death before, but she has never killed someone directly. And perhaps it is only the high-key emotion of the moment, but in that moment, Arihnda finds she doesn't mind being a killer much at all.

She touches his body, which is still warm, and finds that it reminds her of nothing so much as a child’s toy, almost comical in its utter limpness. She rifles through his pockets, and finds his comm, and some explosive charges. She can at least deliver the comm to Thrawn, who is at least interested, to some degree apparently, in her welfare.

Gudry’s death is a problem, but not, necessarily, an insurmountable one. He’d gone off-mission himself, disobeyed clear and direct orders, assaulted her —

Of course, she has no idea how to explain the assault without implicating herself. Unless… unless she can say he was just… Overcome with paranoia, with unfortunate, tragic paranoia, triggered by the change in orders and an an obsessive suspicion of the Admiral…

Maybe, she thinks, that will work. Maybe.

And that’s when the door to her parent’s house slides open.

 

~*~

 

“Sir —”

“We can afford to wait at least another minute, I believe, Commander Faro,” says Thrawn. His voice is smooth, calm, and precise — but his hands are clasped together behind his back.

“Yes, sir,” says Faro, tightly.

One minute turns into two.

Drags into three.

Thrawn checks his watch.

Clasps his hands behind his back again.

Three minutes becomes four.

“Sir —” Faro begins again.

“One minute more, I think, Commander.”

“Sir.” Vanto, coming onto the bridge.

Thrawn turns. “News?”

“They’ve got her. And her parents. They’re bringing them aboard now. And here’s the comm, from Agent Gudry,” he says, holding out the object.

Frowning, Thrawn takes it from him. “Agent Gudry should be with Colonel Yularen at ground command,” he says.

“Apparently —” Vanto hesitates — “apparently she and Agent Gudry had a fight. He’s dead. She’s pretty banged up. They’re taking her to medical —”

“Have the Governor sequestered in my private quarters immediately,” Thrawn says sharply. It is, he knows, perhaps not the best choice, and will certainly raise an eyebrow or two, but the space has the advantage of being both utterly secure and utterly, untouchably private — two advantages he is now utterly certain that she needs. “Send a medical droid if necessary, but no personnel are to interact with her besides yourself. If you _do_ use a medical droid, it is to be completely decommissioned _and destroyed_ immediately when its work is done, and it is not to come into contact with _any_ data terminals at _any time_. Do not let her proffer explanations of any kind for whatever may have transpired on Creekpath. Do not share any details of the rest of the operation. Do not permit her access to comms. Do not interact with her yourself beyond ensuring that she is _securely sequestered in my private quarters._ I intend to interview her about this disastrous venture after troop action on Batonn is complete, and I do not want her spreading her own version of events or enlisting any political support before I do. Do you understand?”

A flicker of surprise, and a bit of insult, show on Vanto’s face. There is open surprise on Faro’s face, which Thrawn can see past Vanto’s shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” says Vanto crisply. “Will that be all?”

“It will indeed. Dismissed.” Vanto turns on his heel: perfectly professional. Thrawn looks once more at his watch. “Commander Faro?”

“Sir,” she says, coming to attention.

“I believe we are ready to begin.”

 

~*~

 

“One minute, please,” comes a voice from behind them. Arihnda turns. “I need to borrow the Governor, unfortunately. Admiral’s orders.” It’s Vanto. “Governor Pryce, if you would come with —”

“The Governor is being taken to the Medical Bay,” says the head of the squadron, a blonde woman a little younger than Arihnda herself. She sounds officious but also, Arihnda notes gratefully, genuinely concerned. “She needs —”

“We’ll call a medical droid, but these are direct orders, thanks,” says Vanto, with a very special blend of toleration and annoyance that Arihnda nearly respects. Not that she feels, at that moment, equipped to properly judge anyone. She is too preoccupied. “Governor?”

“Of course,” she says, as smoothly as she can, ticking through far-fetched ways that she might avoid encountering Eminents, or write off her state, or avoid going anywhere that houses a collection of high-ranking officers. Her voice is only a little off-kilter. “Lead the way.”

He leads her to… private quarters.

“Admiral Thrawn would appreciate it if you waited here for him, ma’am,” he says, standing just outside the doorway. The subtly sniping tone of earlier is gone. His voice is almost conversational — a little bit gentle — and there’s a look almost like — almost confused pity on his face.

She puts the pieces together just a moment too late.

And then she is imprisoned.

 

~*~

 

When all is over, Thrawn leaves the bridge in capable hands, and departs for his quarters.

And on some level, he knows that this is foolish. He is too tired, and is feeling too much with the heady satisfaction of victory flush in his veins, mixing like a drug with the dogged pull of potential Devotion. It would be wiser, some part of him knows, to delay this until he has at least slept.

But in his experience, even latent Devotions are almost always mutual. Which means if he is affected, she very likely is, as well, no matter how preoccupied or rigidly unreachable she may seem. And some matters, he thinks, have festered long enough.

When he enters his quarters, she is emerging from the fresher, wiping the side of her mouth with one hand, and holding her stomach with the other. He stops just inside the doorway. The air feels thick, like incense. Even the sour notes of adrenaline and fear can’t overpower the perfume of tabac and roses — but she looks ill, and wrung out, and she is visibly battered. He has, very strongly, a sudden, sharp urge to cross the room —

Much better, he decides, to speak from a distance.

She raises her chin to look at him. Her back is straight, her shoulders square. Despite the ugly bruising on her face, the sallow pallor of her skin, her rumpled clothing and sweat-flattened hair, she holds herself with pride.

“Come to question me about Gudry’s untimely demise, Admiral?” she asks.

“No,” he says. “I would like to make a recommendation.”

She looks surprised, but only a little. “Oh?”

“This task force will remain at Batonn for another week, at least. It is my recommendation that you recuperate from the events of Creekpath here, aboard the _Chimaera_. I will give up my quarters to you for the duration of your stay. You will not be disturbed by any personnel.”

Her expression narrows with suspicion. “An interesting suggestion, Admiral. May I ask the reason?”

“It will give you what I expect is a much-needed opportunity to recover from what appears to be severe overuse of suppressants.”

Several emotions, all negative, flicker across her face. Then her expression cools. “You are making a very dangerous accusation, Admiral,” she says with impressive smoothness.

“I am not making an accusation,” he says softly. “I am offering a suggestion. And it will save us both time if you drop your charade, at least in my presence.”

There is a long silence. She is still standing, but her posture is more rigid. Finally she says: “For how long?”

“I noticed at Ascension week,” he says. It is a simple statement of fact: the best dignity he can provide to her.

What little color is in her face drains away, which does not surprise him, but still hurts like a knife. She sways a little, too, and he anchors himself to the place where he is standing.

“Did you?” is all she says. He does not reply. “And you’ve held on to it all this time.” He still does not reply. She gathers herself: a nasty expression comes across her face. “Figures your species would be more attuned to it than the other way around. Just my luck, as the saying goes. Well, Admiral, let _me_ save us both some time: tell me what you want for it. I’m hardly in a position to say no.”

And that stings deeply, too — but it is also so insulting that he has to unclench his jaw, bit by bit, for the space of three slow breaths before he can speak again.

“I am not here to barter with chips like a Corellian sabacc player,” he says coldly. He takes another controlled breath. And then, with careful, cool, precision, he says: “If it helps you to understand my view of the matter, allow me to point out that you are here, rather than exposed to the crew, in order to protect your secret.” He pauses, and repeats for emphasis: “To protect you.”

She has not changed her stance much. The nastiness in her face is tinged with a little uncertainty now, but little more than that. “How generous of you, Admiral,” she snarls.

She sounds, and looks, precisely like an animal that kills when cornered — a different creature to Ferasi, he admits, in every possible way.

But he has already made his peace with that.

“But this is the _Empire,_ ” she continues. There is a subtle crack of pain beneath the venom in her words, like the snap of a distant whip. “So spare me your arrogant nobility,” she spits, “and tell me what you _want_.”

And that is insulting, too, but he is more prepared this time. With slow and careful patience, voice soft and measured and soothing, he says: “I have not required payment for any advice or assistance rendered in the past, Governor. It is not my object now.”

There is a precarious moment, drawn out and uncertain, where she stays rigid, the ugly mask of angry distrust still warping her features.

And then, as if a tractor beam in the ceiling holding her upright has suddenly switched off, her face melts into pained exhaustion, and she sways to the side a little and sinks into the chair at his desk, unraveled.  

“What happens if I choose to stay?” she asks dully.

“I have offered you my assistance,” he says mildly. And after a moment of silence, he decides her quietude might be a kind of invitation.

 

~*~

 

“What happens if I choose to stay?” she asks dully.

“I have offered you my assistance,” he says mildly — and for a minute, she thinks that is all he is going to say until she speaks again. Unless she speaks again.

And then she hears the footsteps. She looks up. He is standing close enough to touch her, if he wants. And if he does — oh, she does want — her heat won’t be in full bloom until tomorrow, at least, but with the last wave of adrenaline having crested and broken on the rocks of her anger, she has no reserves left, and all she wants, really, is to close her eyes and be touched, all over, everywhere, the mindless idiot hormone lust of her aching body mixing with the vulnerability of exhaustion, fooling into her thinking there is some meaningful relief to be had —

Then he kneels before her, and takes her hand —

Her breath catches, soft, in her throat.

_Relief._

It _is_ relief — the first and only true relief she has ever felt during a heat. It’s like cool air, like gently running water, like the unspeakable pleasure of tense muscles unknotting, of pain passing gently away in the wake of medicine. She feels a momentary burst of it all over, and then it persists, where he’s touching her, and she clutches his hand.

“I think I do need help,” she whispers, closing her eyes.

“Yes, I think you do,” he says softly, taking her other hand.

She clutches at that, too. Then she leans forward, and touches her forehead to his. More relief. “Not just — I don’t just mean with the suppressants.”

“No?”

“No — no, on Lothal, I… I haven’t been able to clear out the Rebels there as I’d hoped,” she admits, voice strained with sudden emotion. “Tarkin — Coruscant — all they want are results. And I haven’t —” Her voice is thick, for a moment. She swallows. “But — But Fleet Admiral Sartan of the Seventh Fleet is retiring — you could be placed in command. I could speak to Moff Tarkin again. I’ve done it before — smoothed your political way for you —”

“I am aware,” he says softly.

“Are you?”

“I am. And I have supported your ambitions for Lothal, you will recall.”

 _Kintoni._ She rolls her head side to side just a little against his, looking for a little more contact. She would like to touch more of his body, and have more of his body touch her. “I remember.” She whispers. “And with the Seventh Fleet —”

“With the Seventh Fleet, I will unmake the Rebellion on Lothal,” he says softly, pulling away to look at her. She opens her eyes a little reluctantly. There is a fever in her brain, and an ache between her legs, and a sore feeling in her breasts — but for the first time since her first heat, she sees the prospect of something other than pain. He pulls one of his hands gently out of her grasp, and cups the side of her face. “I will drown them in the sea,” he murmurs. His puts his other hand on her face. “And bury them beneath the earth.” He pulls her gently towards him. “And burn them from the sky.”

When he kisses her, it is a relief she could sink into forever.


End file.
